The Shepherd and the Wolf
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: "The peasants of the Asturias believe that in every litter of wolves there is one dog, which is killed by the mother, lest on growing up it should devour the other little ones. Give a human face to this dog son of a wolf, and you will have Javert." Victor Hugo


**Author's Note: So, it seems as though I've invented a new game... It's called "Let's see how many different ways I can possibly keep Javert from dying," and so far I think I'm winning. XD I know you guys are probably getting tired of all my Javert fics lately, but I just can't stop writing them! This one is based mainly off the book but also uses some elements from the movie/musical, and it's probably one of the darkest Les Mis stories I've written (but it has a happy ending! I promise!). Hope you guys enjoy it! :) Please leave a comment if you have the time.**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Disclaimer: Poor Javert. I obviously don't own him (or Les Mis) because if I did, he would have a happier ending.**

**The Shepherd and the Wolf**

"_The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb... They shall not hurt nor destroy in all My holy mountain."_

_~Isaiah 11:6-9~_

The moment that he hits the water, Javert knows that he has made a mistake. It breaks his fall like a wall made of brick as his chest slams into the surface, the air forced from his lungs replaced with the dirty waters of the Seine. It invades his nose, his mouth. It tastes like the sewers mingled with blood—perhaps it is the runoff from the barricade or perhaps it is his own. Javert doesn't know and prefers not to; he isn't sure which option turns his stomach more but decides that either way he feels as though he's going to retch.

His head is spinning, his entire body like a leaf on a breeze. The river is dizzying, disorienting. The current is sucking him under, tossing him this way and that. If only he knew which way was up! Is he getting closer to the surface or dragging himself deeper than he was before? He claws blindly in the darkness. The water is black—black as death, black as hell. There is no moon to light the way. The stars have all deserted him. And he can feel the pressure building in his chest, the icy fingers of the grave reaching out to brush his limbs—or perhaps it is a corpse, the broken body of another man too cowardly to face his fate, a soldier who could not bring himself to shoot a schoolboy or a revolutionary too afraid to take a stand; it makes little difference now. All corpses look the same, and soon that's all he'll be.

A wave of panic. Javert has never been afraid of anything, has never believed in anything but the law. But the law has failed him—No! _He_ had failed the law! And if there is a God, he knows that he has failed Him as well.

His lungs scream for oxygen, beg for air, fight for one last breath, one more second of life. Hyperventilation on dry land is bad enough; beneath the river's surface, it only makes things worse.

_I don't want to die! _

He feels himself slipping out of consciousness, feels the blackness creeping in, and despite his best efforts to go calmly, there is within each one of us an undeniable and deeply-seated desire to live.

_Oh, God! I don't want to die!_

His head breaks the surface and he gasps in relief, sputtering, vomiting, choking on the mix of bile and water that comes up. And then there is earth beneath his feet, and he is on his hands and knees climbing up out of the muck—out of the gutter—once again. He digs his fingers into the bank, slick mud slipping repeatedly beneath his boots and sending him sliding back down to the water's edge. There is dirt beneath his fingernails, covering his uniform, plastered in his hair, but he cannot bring himself to care. At long last, he heaves himself up and over the stone wall, collapsing on the cobblestones, unable to go on. He stares up into the blackness of a cloudy, starless sky, and then he remembers no more.

xxxx

Javert wakes to a pounding head and aching back. He's never been drunk a day of his life, but he has the sneaking suspicion that this is what a hangover must feel like. For the briefest of moments he can't recall why he feels so horrible or how he ended up on the street. He hasn't slept beneath a bridge since he was a boy, and for one terrible second he fears that the entire thing has been a dream, his years of service in the law the mere fabrication of a fatigued child's mind. But then he catches a glimpse of his reflection and it all comes back—the barricades, Valjean, the river—but the man he sees looks more dead than alive and he is left wondering whether he should feel relieved or disheartened.

He's caked in mud from head to toe. His clothes are wet and torn, clinging uncomfortably close to his skin in the summer heat of the morning sun. One shoe, along with his jacket, wallet, and nightstick, have mysteriously disappeared, victims of the river or—more likely—a gamin's greedy fingers. The hat he set upon the parapet is surprisingly still there, though he doubts it will be for long.

_Let some street urchin think it a lucky find_, he muses. It hardly matters to him now.

His hair hangs in matted clumps and muddied strands half loose, half still tied back with the black silk ribbon now stained a filthy brown. He gingerly attempts to pull it loose and realizes very quickly that he will have to cut it out. A quick flick of the knife and his hair comes free, a thick crust of dirt crumbling in its wake, but when he attempts to rake his fingers through it he knows that until his hair is wet again any efforts of a comb or brush will be in vain.

He pauses when he feels the lump on his head from his encounter with the boys at the barricade, wincing slightly. They are all dead now, he supposes—all except the one Valjean had carried through the sewers if luck happened to be on the boy's side. In his condition, Javert would be surprised if the boy made it through the night. He should feel guilty for letting a revolutionary escape, but somehow he cannot bring himself to regret the decision.

A shadow falls upon him, and as he turns, he recognizes the man as inferior officer from a few districts away. He does not know the young man's name, but he has definitely seen the face. Normally he would not be working in this section of the city, but with the situation as it had been the night before, every spare officer had been called upon. Though it embarrasses him to no end to be seen in his current state—he hardly looks like a lawman at all without the uniform jacket and truncheon—he takes slight comfort in the knowledge that his fellow officers were concerned enough to send someone looking for him—or at least his body. Javert starts to speak, but before he can utter a word, the shadow interrupts.

"On your feet!" the man orders, looking down with disgust. "Be off with you now, or I'll have to charge you with loitering! This is a public bridge, not a homeless shelter. We've got enough of our own poor people to worry about without you filthy gypsy vermin!"

The words feel like a blow to the stomach, and it takes every ounce of self-control Javert has not to strike the man. But without the badge, there is little he can do without getting himself arrested, and though a part of him desperately wants to put the man in his place, he can't quite get his tongue to cooperate when he tries to tell the man who he is, the shame of being caught breaking one of his own laws outweighing the desire to be recognized, which would only serve to further degrade his name.

Thoroughly humiliated, he does as he is told—though where he is going he hasn't the slightest clue. He has no money now, no job. Officially, he has resigned. He could go to the Prefect, he supposes, and beg for his position back, but his pride won't allow it and his courage has deserted him. Anyone who was at the barricade would believe he had been executed, and with his wallet gone, he has no way to prove his identity.

_Perhaps it is better_, he thinks, _to simply let them believe that Javert is dead_. _Better to let them think I died as a martyr than to let them know I live as a coward._

Besides, if he were to join the force again, he would eventually have to face the burden of Valjean—to live every day knowing that he had either failed his duty or his conscience—and then he would be right back where he had started. At least this way he would be under no obligation to turn him in.

_I should have died. He should have killed me. It would have been better for us all._

But, of course, that would have been too easy. That would have been _just_. Justice is cold and blind, but it is fair, and he would have accepted his fate without question or complaint. But mercy was something he hadn't been expecting. Mercy was illogical, irrational—something that he didn't understand, something that he feared because it took everything he thought he knew and turned it upside down. And when he'd tried to administer justice his own way, even his own body had rebelled against the command.

_Too afraid to live. Too afraid to die. What sort of man are you that you cannot find the courage to step in either direction?_

He slams his fist into the wall hard enough to make his knuckles bleed and watches the blood run down between his fingers. There is blood on his hands—children's blood—boys barely old enough to be called men. Did they even know what they were fighting for? Did they understand that they would die? He remembers the days of his youth when war seemed a glorious thing and wonders if took a bullet to the chest to make them realize that their stories of battle-scarred heroes were nearly as fanciful as their sisters' fairytales.

Days pass, and there are whispers on the street.

_Did you hear what happened to Javert? The inspector finally lost his marbles!_

_He's crazy! A lunatic!_

_Must be the gypsy blood._

_I heard he died tryin' to spy at the barricades._

_I heard he threw himself into the Seine._

_Well, either way he's dead now._

_Good riddance, I say!_

_I'm just glad he's gone._

They don't recognize him now. He hardly recognizes himself. He hasn't eaten or bathed in three days, and he smells like the sewers. His face—clean shaven except for the trademark sideburns—has become stubbly and rough, his usual immaculate hygiene forfeited out of necessity. Once, he had taken pride in his appearance, done everything that he possibly could to enjoy the privileges that came with power and to disassociate himself from that lower class from whence he'd sprung. Now he looked like what he was, what he knew he'd been all along—a gypsy masquerading as a white man, an unrighteous man trying to be the law, a wolf in sheep's clothing.

He has nowhere to go, no friends who will take him in. And for the first time in a long time he knows what it is to be hungry, to be cold. He's too good to steal, too proud to beg—but eventually his hunger gets the best of him, and when it comes right down to it, it's easier for him to live with a guilty conscience than empty stomach. The day he stole his first loaf of bread, he wept.

He finds that there is a difference between living and being alive. This new life of his is merely surviving, and he hates every minute of it—every coin tossed in his coffer, every mouthful of stale bread and dirty water, every act of mercy, every pity-filled stare—because it reminds him of the righteous man who should have been a criminal, the man who spared his life in some sick, twisted form of revenge knowing all too well that it would cause the very foundations of all that he stood for to crumble beneath his feet. Valjean has ruined him, and he will never forgive him for it.

It doesn't help matters that he's half gypsy. In his time with the police, it hadn't mattered. Once he'd gotten high enough up on the social ladder, no one questioned it out of respect or—perhaps more likely—fear. But now he is a nobody—no! _Less than_ nobody. Because gypsies aren't considered human, and he wonders every day how close he is to becoming the beast that everyone claims he is, how long until the wolf emerges. For years he has tried to suppress that part of himself—the animalistic, instinctive part; the part that longs for freedom and new horizons; the part that wants to believe in the impossible and break all of the rules. But no wolf can ever fully be tamed; he is a feral creature. He knows no master but his Creator, no law but the laws of nature, and under the right circumstances he may turn and bite the hand that feeds him. Javert knows he is no different.

xxxx

One day he notices a cough. It's winter now, and the streets are covered in snow. Food is scarce even on good days, and today anyone with good sense is inside at home—anyone, that is, who has a home to go back to. He can barely feel his fingers, but he holds out a palm to beg. No sense in trying to steal today. The streets are so empty he'd be caught before he could even take a bite out of the spoils. But at least the prisoners are fed. At least the prisoners have a doctor. They can't work if they don't eat. They don't learn justice if they die before their sentence is complete. He'd known a few crooks back in his time who he'd suspected of _trying_ to get caught for this very reason. He'd scoffed at the time, but now that the tables have been turned, the idea is tempting, and he smirks at the thought. He's spent his entire life trying to escape his father's fate only to run back to it with open arms. The irony is too much, and he barks out a laugh. Not the pleasant sort of laugh of someone who is amused but a hollow, haunted laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. It turns into a fit of coughing before he can stop it, and he is reminded of the prostitute Valjean once took in. It would be wise to seek some sort of shelter. But he tells himself that it is just a cough, and he forces himself to remain on the street little bit longer. Just a few more coins, and he can buy bread. Just a few more coins, and he won't have to sleep another night with the guilt of a thief hanging over his head. It won't be enough to buy the medicine he needs, but it doesn't matter. You can't eat medicine. And it's only a cough.

But the cough doesn't go away. It lingers. It worsens. It brings along a host of other problems. People stop giving money to a man who is sick. They don't want his disease. They're afraid to touch him. Even the kindest of souls doesn't want to risk sharing in his fate. He can see the pity in their gaze, but pity doesn't fill an empty belly.

_It's better this way_, he hears someone say. _He'll be out of his misery soon enough_.

And perhaps they are right. The winter wind is bitterly cold, but he feels as though he's burning up. No matter how many layers he takes off, no matter how much snow is falling, he still finds himself wiping sweat from his brow, still feels like he's in the summer heat. Everything hurts. Everything aches. He can barely force himself to stand. It doesn't matter that he has nothing to eat. He couldn't keep it down anyway. Not for long.

Stumbling down a darkened alleyway, he collapses in a pile of snow. This time he doesn't need help. Nature has seen fit to end his life in her own way. Perhaps this time God will be merciful. Curling up beneath the sheets of slightly soiled newspaper littering the street, Javert closes his eyes and prays for death to come.

xxxx

Javert is miserably hot. His throat is on fire. It feels as if he'd swallowed a hot coal, as though there is a fire consuming him from the inside out. The flames lick at his feet, scorch his tawny skin. The pain is unbearable, but the flesh is not burning; there are no wounds. Hell. This must be hell. Eternal torment for the damned. Being burned alive and never dying to relieve the suffering.

There are a thousand voices here, and they all sound like screams. Enjolras hanging from the window, Gavroche lying in pool of his own blood, Fantine frozen in terror on her deathbed never knowing if her child will be safe.

_You killed us! _the voices cry. _Our blood is on your hands, and you must pay the price!_

"Mercy!" he begs. "Please, have mercy!"

But there is no mercy here. No way out. No escape.

_You never showed mercy to others. Why should God take pity on you now?_

When Javert next opens his eyes, he is met with a most perplexing sight. His skin is still burning, but the flames have disappeared. He is in an unfamiliar room with a figure dressed in a white shirt. The man's back is to Javert, but he can see the hair is silver. He is kneeling by a window, hands folded in earnest prayer with sunlight streaming in around him like a light from above. In Javert's bleary-eyed vision, the silver hair seems to glow, giving the man an almost angelic aura around his face. The man seems familiar, but he can't be sure without seeing his face. He ventures a guess.

"V-val—jean?"

Talking hurts more than he'd expected, and he quickly tries to swallow the needles that seem to prick at his throat. This can't be heaven because he's still in pain. But what would business would someone like Valjean have being in hell?

The figure turns around, and Javert sees that he was right. The older man's eyebrows are lifted in surprise, as if he hadn't been expecting to see anyone there at all.

"You're awake," he says. "That's good. I was beginning to worry. The fever seems to have broken, but I'm afraid you're not out of the woods yet."

_So I'm not dead. _

The thought comes as both a relief and a burden. He is not in hell, but he is again in Valjean's debt. And he's not so sure that he prefers the latter.

Javert notices the rosary clutched in the man's right hand. It is made from black glass, and he wonders briefly whether it is one of the rosaries from the factory at M-sur-M. Had he been praying for him this entire time?

"H-how…long…?" Javert winces, unable to finish the thought before another bout of coughing takes over.

There is concern in the old man's eyes. Not just pity but genuine brotherly affection. He has only ever seen such a look in the eyes of priests and saints, and he knows now that it wasn't all a trick. In the blink of an eye, prisoner 24601 has become a man.

"Here," Valjean slides his hand underneath the pillow and lifts Javert's head as he places a bowl of water to his lips. "Drink this."

Javert would rather die than accept another act of kindness from this man, but the wetness against his lips is too tempting, and he gives in to the desire to quench his thirst, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat like balm. It hurts to swallow, but the moment Valjean takes the bowl away, he instantly finds himself wishing for more. The image of the rich man in the fiery pits of hell begging Lazarus for a tiny drop of water on the tongue comes to mind, and the realization makes him want to weep. [1]

He rasps out a single word. "Why?"

It's a simple question, but this one word contains the echoes of a thousand, and Valjean hears them all.

_Why did you save me? Why don't you hate me? Why can't you behave like a criminal should? Why won't you just let me die?_

And the look of anguish that fills his eyes is so profound that Valjean is forced to look away because he cannot bear to see the once-proud gaze become so broken.

"The Lord says, 'If your enemy hungers, feed him. If he thirsts, give him a drink.' [2] Who am I to question that?"

Javert closes his eyes and sighs but not before the tiniest trickle of emotion manages to slip out. He is tired. So tired…. "I don't understand you, Valjean."

Mercifully, Valjean chooses to ignore his moment of weakness, and Javert silently thanks him for it. He doesn't know if he could bear to stomach any further humiliation.

"It is my duty to care for those less fortunate than I. Surely you can understand the concept of duty if not the concept of Christian love." He smiles gently. "Perhaps we are not so different in that respect."

But it isn't just duty that motivates Valjean to act. It has never been duty. A man doesn't pay a prostitute's hospital bills and raise a child that is not his own out of a sense of duty. He doesn't risk being thrown into prison by revealing his identity when another unjustly accused could take his place, doesn't dodge bullets and swim through sewage to save a revolutionary who he knows nothing about. And he certainly doesn't save his enemy. Twice.

Who is this man, this embodiment of Christ? He is closer to the Divine than he is to man, and if that makes Valjean a saint, then he is the worst of sinners.

"We are _nothing_ alike!"

It is a vicious hiss filled with a bitterness that cuts to the core. Before, he denied it out of hatred. Now he denies it because he knows that it is true. Valjean is the better man. He has _always _been the better man. When the ex-con was afforded mercy, he accepted it and shared it with others. When Javert had been offered the same, he threw it away. If anything, he has degraded over time while Valjean has been improving.

_You are wrong and always have been wrong_,a voice echoes in his mind. _And no matter what you try, you will never get it right. For he who keeps the whole law and yet stumbles in one point is guilty of all. _[3] _Grace cannot be earned; it must be given. What you do with that grace is up to you._

The outburst has damaged his throat again. He does not open his eyes but replies with a pained grimace. "It would be easier to let me die."

Valjean nods. "Perhaps."

"So why don't you?"

"The Good Shepherd rejoices more over one lost sheep returned to Him than over the other ninety-nine who never went astray." [4]

Javert looks up, a cynical snarl on his lips. "But _wolves_ scatter the flock. They are not welcomed home with open arms. They are cast out. Sheep and wolves are enemies by nature. Yet even the wolves must eat to survive."

"One day there will be peace, Javert. One day it will not need be so."

"What makes you so certain that the wolf will not bite?"

Valjean smiles softly. "It's not the wolf I have to answer to, Javert. It's the Shepherd. And though I am confident in His ability to protect the sheep, I know He loves the wolves also."

[1] Luke 16:19-31

[2] Romans 12:20

[3] James 2:10

[4] Luke 15:3-7


End file.
